


The Lay of Arwen Undomiel

by ladyofrosefire



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, I have a lot of feelings about Arwen, Post Return of the King
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 03:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14179593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: Arwen's story after the War of the Ring and the departing of the Elves is not one of grand deeds and heroism of songs. Her story is one of a woman finding a place for herself in a new home and a new life.This story is not an entirely happy one, but it's happier more often than it isn't.A sincere thank you to damoselmaledisant for all her invaluable help in writing this piece <3





	The Lay of Arwen Undomiel

When Arwen woke, the mist still clung to the white, worn stones of Gondor. She rose, drew her robe about herself and went to stand by the window. The day promised to be a warm one. Summer was rolling in, baking the long grass and ripening the fruits hanging in the orchards. The Shadow had fallen at the end of spring, and she had watched the land renew itself since coming to this city of men. It had been beautiful before, she had been told, but it was a ruined sort of beauty, full of melancholy and things long lost. The city itself was ruined further, and all it gained from the spring growth was wildflowers pushing up through its cracks. 

It was, Arwen thought, a very human type of beauty. 

With a sigh, she turned from the window, and from the White City slowly waking below. Aragorn still slept. The morning light fell through the window, but it had not yet reached his face. His hair, too, fell across his eyes. Sleep had smoothed the care and weight of duty from his face and left him looking as young as the sapling of a man she had met in her father’s house. A pang went through her at the sight. Slowly, she sank down beside him, one hand still holding the fine weave of her robe together. During the night, she had been the one to feel young. Impossibly young, she thought, in ways she had not known she could. They had been able to talk to one another, but only in Quenya, and only in fits and starts.There were topics too new to them both for any more than that. 

Her mother had been there when Arwen came of age, and yet took no interest in any  _ ellon _ . Arwen had seen her, later, broken by grief and pain. If her mother had learned what she had chosen, and the doom it meant for her, would she have stood between them? Would she have set some impossible task, in addition to the one her father had demanded? It would have ended the same, regardless. This was where her heart and her fate lay, for good and ill. 

Arwen reached out to brush the dark hair from Aragorn’s eyes and they opened, clear grey in the morning light. 

“Tinúviel,” he greeted her, just as he had upon that first meeting, and took her hand in his. “Arwen.”

“Good morning, Estel.” 

~~~

In those first weeks, she was needed less often than her husband. Mithrandir remained still within the city, as did the members of the Fellowship and some of her own people. She spoke often with them, as though the exchange of songs and tales might forge a stronger bond between them than the sea could sever. Yet, at the same time, she knew she was cutting tie after tie. None asked her to change her mind, for they knew it would be fruitless. For while she may still venture beyond Gondor, she had pledged her hand and her heart to its king. Still, there were too many goodbyes to let them go unsaid. 

Never in all their meetings did anyone sing of Lúthien.

A song of the Valinor had lived beside her heart for some weeks, now, although it was not the song of leave-taking. She let it pour from her lips as she and Estel watched the young tree stretch toward the summer sun. Its branches were heavy with its fair flowers, and their scent drifted on the warm air.

It was there that Frodo found them, away from all her kin and the people of the city. She had met the Halfling only briefly before, but heard more of him since. Sturdy as his kind were, Arwen could see clearly what toll it would take on him to remain in this world after all he had borne. She had chosen her fate in full knowledge of what it would mean, and it brought her joy to balance the sorrow. He had not, and his burden was by far the greater. Frodo would not be able to build himself a family to chase the shadows from his mind. As she rose, she wondered only briefly if one of her own people might stay her hand, but they would know better than any the need to leave these shores. The sea-longing could not touch her anymore. This Halfling may never feel it himself, but he would have a need for sanctuary beyond any this Middle Earth could provide. 

She gave him her place on the ships and felt her heart grow lighter for it. 

And yet, sorrow gripped her still when the time came to bid her brothers and her father farewell. Elladan and Elrohir approached her first. They said little, although there was much they might have shared. All words were insignificant. 

“ _ Namaarie _ .” She bade them, and then, “ _ Savo 'lass a lalaith. _ ”

It was the best that she could do.

Her father approached her last, and there were tears in his eyes, for all that he tried to spare her. They had been to a funeral and heard an announcement of a betrothal only hours earlier; death and renewal united. Was that what her father saw, looking upon her now? The legends never spoke of how Thingol received his daughter’s death. Her father’s grief was plain. There was nothing they could say that would encompass the depth of it. And yet, the longing for the sea, and for Valinor, had come to her father, and he had to leave. Her mother waited there, and his sons would journey with him. 

“When will you sail?”

He sighed, and all the weight of the ages pressed down on him. “Not for some time. There are arrangements to make, and we must wait for the Halfling.”

“Thank you,  _ ada _ .” She could do nothing more than take his hand. “I worry for him, after all that he has borne.”

They spoke for some time about the ships and how they would cross the waves between the Grey Havens and Valinor. Then they talked of Celebrían and what they remembered of her. 

“She would be proud if she could see you now.” His smile was sad. Celebrían would have been proud, yes, but as stricken with grief as he was. “Do you remember what she taught you, my daughter?”

“I do. And I promise, I will tell my children about our people, and about their grandfather.” She brushed the tears away from her father’s face, and then found that she wept as well. 

He held her hands in both of his. “Are you happy, Arwen?” 

She inclined her head. “I am. I will not pretend I am not sorry to lose you, but there is so much joy here,  _ ada _ . There is a life-- and more to come. There is love like I have never known before. I am happy with my choice, and I will not forget you, or mother. Being your daughter has been the best part of my life.”

He smoothed her hair, as he had when she was a child even by the reckoning of Men. “Your mother and I knew that your fate would not run the expected course of our race. You have been our joy. You have been the light of our people. I can only hope that your new people love you as dearly as we always will.”

She embraced him and hid her tear-streaked face against his shoulder. “Thank you for everything you have given me.”

“I only wish I could have given you more.”

At long last, the time came for them to say their final farewells. Arwen stood on the high, grassy hill and watched as the Elves settled into their saddles and set off for the coast and their ships. The tears with her father had been slower. They had each tried for the other to conceal the worst of their pain. Now, Arwen could barely remain on her feet as sob after sob shook her and her body folded around the sharp ache beneath her ribs. She pressed both hands over her mouth, her knuckles white. 

Aragorn came to her, then, and reached out. “ _ Nín bereth _ , let me help you.”

She breathed in, as slowly and as steadily as she could. “I do not know what to ask…” 

“It will be all right.”

She could only hope that he was right. He knew more of loss than she had until this moment. And yet he had never seen the loss of all he had known, and never would. Arwen found herself shaking and turned her eyes back in the direction from whence they had come. There was a life here for her still, and the pain would fade, if only she gave it time. 

With a last sob, she went into Estel’s arms and took her sanctuary there.

~~~

Summer in Gondor was hot, even into August. The southern sun beat down on orchards and fields, burnishing the golden wheat. If the season continued this way, it would be a good harvest, one desperately needed if they were to restore the White City. 

Arwen was sweating. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck and her dress to her sides as she sat on the high dais in a second throne set beside the one of gold. People of Gondor stood before the throne, gazing up at their new king. He asked them about the harvest, about their families, about the work done in the Houses of Healing. Efforts to restore the city went apace, but there was a wound in the hearts and spirits of its people that was slower to heal. In Rivendell, she would have offered song and rest. They would have gathered to chase the darkness away. If they found any whom they could not save, they would build a ship to send them to Valinor. The thought sent a pang through her, and Arwen said nothing. She sat and watched, her fingers curled tight tucked beneath her trailing sleeves, as her husband offered what words of comfort he could. The party of supplicants left with their hearts perhaps lightened, only to be replaced by the next.

She lasted through half of the day’s meetings before the heat and her own silence drove her from the chamber. She wandered through back ways, the train of her gown gathering city dust. Far below, she could hear the sounds of Men, Dwarves, and even a few Elves working in the courtyard. At this height, she could just make out the shapes of the farmers in the fields. Slowly, Arwen wound her way down. People stopped as she passed, bowing and curtseying and falling to hushed, almost reverent whispers of  _ Luthien _ . She was their Elven queen, the one who had given up eternity to stay with them and their prophesied king. Arwen took in their faces, less weary after spring and most of a long summer free of the Shadow. He had done much good already. What was there she could offer them? 

Noise jarred her from her thoughts as she neared the gates. Arwen looked about, stepping quickly out of the way of a passing company of Dwarves bearing hammers and tongs. The air stank of hot metal, sweat, and dust, and rang with the sound of a hundred hammers beating steel and mithril. Until that year, she had never realized that an entire city could smell. The press of bodies, Men and animals alike, trapped within stone walls and baking under the southern sun paid the heat back in kind with a smell like brine, and onions, and the meat these people so greatly enjoyed. It seemed to soak into the city, blown about in its dust, until there was no distinguishing it from the stones themselves. The air stung her nose and eyes whenever she walked out in the open. Now, she clasped her hands so that she would not raise one to cover her nose. A longing filled her for the cool shadows of Imladris, or the flowers and golden leaves of Lóthlorien. These people had never seen either place, and if they had heard the songs of the Eldar, it was only through rough handling and the passage of long years.

~~~

There was a woman in the city by the name of Ioreth who worked in the Houses of Healing. Arwen found her there when she went wandering through Minas Tirith again the next morning. This was where most of the trees and lawns and gardens were kept. The sun and smell of the city did not reach to these cool, green paths. More trees grew every day in the city below as they rebuilt, but those were too young yet. They were children in need of guidance. But here, where the city had escaped the ravages of battle, she could run her fingers through fragrant blossoms and walk beneath the shade of wide-spreading branches. Even so high in the city, the trees were young compared to the mallorns she had known, but they were still fully-grown trees. She loved them, and thanked them for the cool quiet they offered her. 

On this walk, Arwen wandered farther than usual and found herself in a small garden nestled against a white stone wall. The woman that worked there was grey haired, wrinkled and weathered, with blue veins that stood out in her hands. Her back bent over the athelas which grew there. Arwen went to her, gathering her long skirts and kneeling beside her on the grass. 

“Pardon me. I do not wish to disturb you, yet, please-- I may bear this work more easily.” 

The woman looked at her and laughed. “My queen, you’re welcome of course to join me, or to tell me to step aside. But my bones are not so old yet, and certainly not as old as yours, for  all that I show my years more than I think you ever will, and I take joy in my work. Now we have a king again, Gondor should never be without this plant, even if the houses themselves stand empty, or near to it.” 

Here, Ioreth patted the ground by one of the plants. The summer air carried the scent of the earth and of a few crushed leaves of the athelas. The woman’s face was lined as old tree bark, and crinkled further at her mouth and the corner of her eyes. Long years and hardships aside, this woman’s smiles seemed plentiful.

Arwen found herself smiling, as well. “If it brings you joy, then I will not ask you to give up your labor. Show me instead how I can be the most help to you.”

Ioreth took her at her word and began to chat away about how best to weed the plot without damaging the plants, how much water they needed, and how much sun, whether it needed fertilizer, whether it grew best with a trellis or planted amidst other plants… And although she knew already, Arwen listened to every word. All around them as they worked drifted the gentle, green scent of athelas, of good earth, and of old stone.  

They shared stories, too, about the many things they had seen over the years of their lives. Arwen found herself telling Ioreth of the things that had happened in her childhood in Imladris and the years she had spent in Lothlórien. She even spoke of her mother, in the days before her capture and her departure, although her voice shook when she spoke of her father and the hours and years spent at his side. Ioreth spoke more than she listened, but she listened well and with the air of a grandmother. The lifetimes which separated them seemed not to matter. 

“I wish that my husband could have lived to see this. I wouldn’t say ours was a romance from legend, but that suited us better.” She commented as she gently pinched dead leaves from their stems. “He always believed that the king would return. But he left me with children, and they gave me grandchildren, so there is something of him here to see King Elessar.” Here, she smiled at Arwen and offered her a fresh sprig of the plant. “If it is not too much for me to say, my queen, I hope that you will be given the joy of children before long. There is none like it.”

“It is not too much to say.” She assured her, although it was not only the summer sun that made her face feel warm. 

Arwen took the stem of athelas and tucked it into the neck of her gown. Perhaps it was its scent that steadied her, or the soft rustle of the trees around them, but she did not feel the urge to run. 

“Thank you, Ioreth. Your hope is one I share.”

~~~

Emissaries from the Haradrim who had settled around Lake Núren came to Gondor at the end of the month. They bore notched weapons and scarred, and freshly polished brass mail beneath their crimson robes. Though they bowed when they greeted their king, Arwen felt the air drawn as if waiting a clap of thunder. 

She and Aragorn had arrayed themselves in silver and white. Arwen herself had arranged the moonlight grey folds of his cloak. Her own dress and circlet were simple; all the better to direct attention to the crown on Aragorn’s brow and the bright Elfstone at his throat. And yet, it was not enough. Aragorn had proven himself when he broke their armies, but Gondor and the Haradrim had long been enemies, and some of them had the blood of Númenor in their veins. Perhaps the man who stepped forward now was one of them. He stood tall, and his hair hung long and dark and braided with flashing gold. He sketched another bow to the both of them before he spoke. 

“I am Castamir, chief of the people of Lake Núren. We come before you, my king, in hopes of discussing with you the place that our people will have in the Reunited Kingdom. Our peoples were once one, and in this new age, I believe that we should be once again. The Shadow has fallen. Do not let old grievances color your opinion of us in this new day.” 

Several of the servants in the hall shifted where they stood. She was not the only one to notice.

Aragorn inclined his head, his expression grave. “I welcome you to Gondor, and am grateful for the fealty you have sworn. We welcome you back with open arms, and I hope to see how you and your people have returned from that Shadow of which you speak. It was not so long ago that your armies and mine met at Pelennor. I am glad I to have won your fealty. But it is the people of Gondor who must shift for you to find your place in this new kingdom. I can only hope that you will offer them as much courtesy as you have offered me.”

Arwen saw the flash in Castamir’s eyes and the clenching of his jaw from her place beside her husband. 

A thought had followed her in the months since Aragorn’s coronation. The burdens of leadership were not entirely alien to him, but she had sat at her father’s council, and at council in Lothlórien with her grandmother and grandfather. These ways were as familiar to her as the tracks and trails of the North were to him. There were too many traps, too much deceit, even now that Sauron was gone from this world. Perhaps she could move where he could not, and lift some of the burden of leadership from his shoulders. She was Arwen Undomiel, daughter of the Lord of the The Last Homely House East of the Sea, granddaughter of the Lord and Lady of Caras Galadhon, and the heir of Lúthien Tinúviel. She was the queen of the Reunited Kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor. 

Smoothly, she stood, and drew all the weight of her years and her people around herself.

“I welcome you, as well, chieftain of the Haradrim. You and your men have traveled far to reach us, and we are grateful for the dedication you show to your king. Allow me to give you and your people a place to rest, and to wash away the dust of the road. Tonight, we will have food, and music, and tomorrow we will discuss how it is that we of Gondor may ease the transition to your new home. The fields of Núren are both vast and fertile, and although their yield will be great, so will be the work. Now, drink and wash the dust from your throat.” 

Arwen beckoned, and a servant brought forward a pitcher of wine and a cup which he filled for Castamir. He took it, and drank, his eyes never leaving her face. When he was done, she gestured again, and the squire refilled the cup. Arwen herself took it and passed it to her husband’s hand. 

Then Arwen spoke again. “In time, I am sure that you and your people will help Gondor to grow in strength and in splendor with the fruits of your labors, and for that, we are grateful. If you would like, we could arrange to show you how the White City has restored itself.”

Aragorn’s mouth quirked as he set aside the now empty cup. “I believe you saw our new gates on the way in.”

~~~

The first snow of winter had just fallen over Gondor when the envoy came from Ithilien with Faramir and Eowyn at its head. They had left trusted advisors to oversee the city during their stay so that they could bring news and company to Minas Tirith. Banners flapped above the streets, and the gleaming gates swung wide to welcome them to the city. Aragorn and Arwen had ridden to greet them, her in silver, and him in green, with the elfstone at his throat and his crown on his brow. Once they had made their formal welcomes, Faramir and Aragorn rode as friends back to the palace, where Faramir would return to the rooms he had held when he was the son of the Steward. Arwen fell in beside Eowyn, then, by default. 

They had met twice before; at the wedding and at King Theoden’s funeral. On those occasions, Eowyn had been only recently recovered from her brush with death at the hands of the Witch King. Now, she seemed full of life. Her hair hung long and thick around her shoulders and a flush rode on cheeks that were no longer sunken. When Arwen looked a moment longer, she saw the slight outward curve of Eowyn’s abdomen beneath the fur-trimmed layers of her winter robe. She kept herself from staring. Children were rare among the Eldar. It had been many long years, even by their reckoning, since Arwen had seen one, much less been one herself. It was only after dinner that Arwen managed to approach her. 

Eowyn had found one of the wide, stone seats set beneath the most protected windows. This one had the benefit of cushions and a view into a snow-covered garden. When she saw Arwen, she made as if to rise until Arwen stopped her with a gesture and a shy smile. 

“Please, do not trouble yourself.”

“I am not so fragile as that, my queen. But I thank you.” She inclined her head, and then indicated the space remaining on the seat. 

Arwen took it, arranging the heavy folds of her gown around herself. Rivendell was cooler overall than Gondor, but it did not have these winters with their biting winds that slipped through every crack and alley in the stonework. She shivered and pressed herself back into the cushions. 

“Have you ever been skating?”

Arwen could only blink owlishly for a moment as she tried and failed to remember to what it was to which Eowyn referred. 

“You attach blades of bone or iron to sturdy boots and use them to move across a thick layer of ice. I think that by the time the Anduin freezes, I may not be able to show you myself, but I am sure there is someone in the city who could.”

Arwen, who had been about to ask whether or not that activity would be wise in Eowyn’s current condition, closed her mouth. Slowly, she nodded. “In Rivendell and Lothlórien, the rivers do not freeze. We may venture onto them in boats, but--” She stopped. “I believe they would freeze, now, if I were ever to return there.”

“Is there some magic the Elves have--” Then she, too, halted.

She could not bear it to hear Eowyn apologize for something as simple as this. Arwen forestalled her with a shake of her head. She spoke, then, of old history turned to story and near-legend, painting images of the places of her life as they were before the Ring and the departure of her first people. She described the leaves of the mallorn and the way they rustled and sang with each breeze, the song of the river Nimrodel, the flowers that bloomed year-long in Rivendell, and the paths that she had wandered there. With her hands, she described the curving walkways, and how her home had woven amongst the ancient trees. And as she spoke, she found the memories less painful then they had been before, and that they grew gentler still with the telling. Finally, she fell silent. There was much more she could say, but she had said all she needed, and there was more she would ask. 

“I know less of Rohan than I would like, and that only from stories. I would hear the truth of it from you, if you are not opposed.”

At that, Eowyn’s face, which had been filled with almost childlike delight, took on a wistful note. Then she sat up straighter and began to speak of horses, and open fields, and of songs sung around their fires. It was there that one of Eowyn’s handmaids found them some hours later when she came to find her mistress. Eowyn waved off a proffered hand and got to her feet without apparent difficulty. She seemed happy, despite her weariness. As she smoothed a hand over the slight curve of her abdomen, it stirred a longing nothing like the songs of sailing across the sea. For a moment, Arwen’s hand fell to her own stomach. 

“I would like to learn to skate, if it would not be too much to ask of you.” She asked, standing as well.

Eowyn smiled. “My ladies and I could go with you as soon as the ice is thick enough. For now… I think I am still well enough to ride, if you would join me.” Then she dismissed her lady and, when her footsteps could no longer be heard, turned to Arwen again. “I know I might be overstepping, but I know when I married Faramir, I wanted someone to say this to me. Whatever fears you may have, I won’t tell you they don’t matter, and I doubt that you shared the ones I had. What woman of Numenor could hope to rival one of the Elves?”

Arwen looked away, but Eowyn continued.

“They cannot make you a symbol if you do not let them. I count you as a friend, Arwen, and I wish to see you as happy in your life as I am in mine.”

With that, she gave a shallow curtsey and turned to depart. 

“Eowyn?” Arwen called. “Any who seeks to compare you to another unfavorably does not know what they say. You are the equal of any  _ Elleth _ I have known in all my years.”

~~~

At the beginning of spring, when the first snowdrops showed through the frost, Eowyn rode back to Ithilien with her husband and their retinue. The rains came shortly after, scouring the city clean. When they stopped, and the sun warmed the stones again, wildflowers sprang up across the hills. The planting began in the fields, and the White Tree put out its sweet-smelling blossoms. Green filled in the cracks in the White City, kept down its dust, and filled the air with a bright, fresh smell that made Arwen’s heart grow light. She made her arrangements quietly. One fine day, she had horses saddled, and freed Aragorn from his concerns in the city. By the Anduin, the grass was deep and soft, and the sun shone gently. 

She did not think once of Luthien. 

~~~

The walls of the city rang with cheers when they met their prince. Eldarion’s eyes went wide, and then his tiny face screwed up. Aragorn tucked him into the crook of his arm and rocked him gently. He had gotten better at that since the birth of their daughters. A few moments more, and a few whispered words in Elvish, and their son quieted again. He would meet his city properly when he was old enough to appreciate it in all its noise and beauty. Minas Tirith could wait to know him better until he was older. 

“Give him to me, Estel. I will join you and our daughters soon.” 

She cradled their infant son in her arms and sang softly to him as she carried him back to his cradle. There were nurses to attend to him, and she had given instruction that they must call to her as soon as he showed signs of distress or hunger. She lingered long enough to see her child to sleep, and then slipped soundlessly from the room. 

Her people waited below, and her daughters among them. Elothiel and Elmiriel moved through the assembly with all of the grace of her first people. It was with a pang of wistfulness that she thought of how proud her mother would have been to see them, and of the love in her father’s eyes. She embraced both of her daughters in turn when they came to her, and then took Aragorn into a gentle embrace. 

“He is sleeping, Estel. I will stay with our people as long as I am able.” 

His fingers, still callused even now, brushed over her cheek. “They will be happy to have you among them, my queen.”

Arwen smoothed back his hair. It was more silver than black at his temples, now, and lines had formed around his eyes. He wore the years well, and with less care than she had seen on him in the decades before they had come to this shining city. 

“Come,” She took his hand. “Our daughters will not wait for us. See, already Elothiel is trying to convince Eowyn to teach her how the Rohirrim manage their horses. And Elmiriel will have a new trade agreement from the men of Núren for us soon, I have no doubt.”

Aragorn looked where Arwen indicated and laughed. “She is her mother’s daughter, then.”

Together, they wandered through the gathering, taking a quiet moment to observe. Both girls were engrossed in their own conversations. Elothiel was laughing, her dark head tipped back, as Eowyn and her son, Elboron, took turns telling pieces of some story. From their daughter’s expression, whatever story it was held all the excitement of slaying dragons. Elmiriel seemed to sit in the midst of a kind of court, silent for now, but looking keenly from one ambassador to another. Arwen and Aragorn looked at one another. A laugh broke from the both of them in the same moment. 

“We have done well, I think.” Aragorn murmured. 

“Let us join them.”

As one, they stepped into the central courtyard. Above them stretched the branches of the white tree, heavy with spring flowers. Around them, the walls of the city sheltered their people from a wind that blew in from the north. As she and Aragorn came into view, the people let out a cheer that resounded off of the white stone. 

“Long live Prince Eldarion!” They called. “Long live Prince Eldarion!”

~~~

_ How had Eldarion come of age so quickly _ , Arwen wondered. Her son sat amidst his friends. Barahir, Eowyn’s grandson, sat closest to him. She could see the shadow of her friend in the crinkles that formed at the edges of his eyes when he smiled. His grandfather, gone a decade now-- and had it really been so long?-- showed in the dark color of the man’s hair. Eldarion, for all that he was fifty now, looked young and green. Yet the memory of him small enough to tuck into the crook of her arm was still fresh in her mind. He would be looking for a wife, soon. 

Arwen turned from the celebration and wandered into the garden. The white tree was heavy with blossoms that drank in the light of new-risen moon. She raised a hand to touch a branch as she passed by. Then she turned down one of the paths. She could see the whole city laid out below. The lights shone in warm imitation of the stars, just as they had when her daughters came into their majority. They passed out of sight as she rounded a bend in the path, but the greenery was as welcome a sight. Tonight, though, something else caught her attention. Quickly, Arwen turned and started back the way she had come, walking as quietly as she could. 

Was this what her father had felt when he learned of her love for Estel, or what her mother would have felt if she had known? She had never stopped thinking of them, but she had believed this uncertainty to have passed. It had only taken a glimpse of Elmiriel smiling and standing with Calimehtar, grandson of the Castamir who had come to them nearly a century ago. 

Arwen sat on the wall that surrounded the white tree, her hands laced together in her lap. She almost had to laugh. The first thing she thought was still that he was not worthy of her daughter. Had she learned so little in all the time she had spent in this city? She looked down at her hands. They would never bear the blue veins Ioreth’s had before they laid her to rest beside her husband. Neither would her daughter’s. That would be true whether Arwen placed obstacles before this man of Núren or not. 

She hesitated, still, as she got to her feet. How long would he give her daughter before he passed and brought greater grief to her than she could bear? The first pang of it struck Arwen’s heart as she returned to the celebration. It did not matter, she told herself, because the end would be the same regardless. Arwen could break her daughter’s heart now, or let it break in a hundred, or perhaps two hundred, more years. Had she not treasured every moment with Aragorn, even as she felt them slip through her fingers faster with each passing day? He was silver-haired, now, but smiling. He clasped their son in in an embrace, ruffling his hair as he had when Eldarion was still small enough to ride on his shoulders. Elothiel sat nearby, breaking off her song to fall into one of her frequent fits of laughter. Arwen broke into a smile, gathered the long skirt of her gown, and hurried across the room to join them. She would wait to discuss what she had seen with Aragorn until the festivities were over. 

_ Perhaps _ , a part of her whispered,  _ Elmiriel’s heart will not break at all.  _

~~~

Aragorn was dead. 

Around Arwen, the wind rattled the branches of the trees and set the mallorn leaves spinning. Lothlórien was a dark hollow that suited the great gap in her. The shifting branches and chill air howled when she could not. The woods had joined her in her mourning. And yet, for all of that, there was no poetry here. She had no songs to sway Mandos. And what good would they have been if she had? She was going to his halls, and she would not return. 

Aragorn was dead. 

Eldarion would rule, now, over the White City, and the Reunited Kingdom. He would live beside his wife, and his children would rule after him. The line of Lúthien would carry on, and strengthen the line of Isildur. He was  _ Peredhil _ , as she was, and the women of Middle Earth had only four score years, if the world were kind. As for her daughters, Elothiel would sail to meet her mother’s people on the ship Legolas had crafted. Elmiriel would share her mother’s fate. Her betrothed carried more of the old Númenorian blood, but not enough. Perhaps she would be stronger. Perhaps she would die the death of men before the end of the century. This was why her father and Lúthien’s had stood between them and the men they loved. This was the source of their mothers’ grief. This was a dragging, yawning emptiness like Arwen had never known. It welcomed her into its depth, promising peace and rest. That void promised its own end. 

Arwen fell at last at Cerin Amroth. She laid herself down amidst the fallen leaves and closed her eyes to the bare branches. There, she pulled the memory of the day she and Aragorn had plighted their troth around herself. The sun had been shining, then, and the hill bright with sweet-scented flowers. It had been summer, and she had been young, and foolish, and happy, and she had held that happiness for over six-score years. She had created three new lives. And so it was with a smile on her lips and the leaves of the mallorn for a shroud that Arwen passed from this world into the halls of Mandos.

There stood Lúthien Tinúviel, just as all the songs described her. She was like the image in a still pool; not a perfect mirror, but a perfect echo, and somehow more besides. Perhaps it was the other way around. 

“Was it worth it?” Arwen asked.

Lúthien gestured. Arwen followed the motion of her white hand. There stood Beren. Just beyond him stood a cluster of people, not numerous, but dear. There was Eowyn, freed from the frost of age and standing with her son. Ioreth leaned against her husband’s side. And in their midst stood Aragorn, grey eyed and smiling, as he had appeared when she saw him arrayed like a lord from the West on that fine, summer day. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm going to let you all in on a little secret. I wrote this as my final paper for a Tolkien seminar. We could do creative projects, so I wrote fanfic. Got an A on it, too, so I thought I'd stick it up here. And, because I cite my damn sources:
> 
> Bibliography:
> 
> Albert Mohler, R. “From Father to Son — J.R.R. Tolkien on Sex.” AlbertMohler.com, 19 Sept.   
> 2016, albertmohler.com/2016/09/19/father-son-j-r-r-tolkien-sex-2/.
> 
> Coppa, Francesca. “The Dwarf's Tale.” Fanfiction Reader: Folk Tales for the Digital Age,   
> University of Michigan Press, 2017, pp. 93–95.
> 
> Jones, Colin. Mabinogion, the Four Branches of The Mabinogi (Annotated): The Ancient Celtic   
> Epic. Translated by Charlotte Guest, 1st ed., Cadw Swn/Potassium Frog Ltd, 2017. 
> 
> Nelson, Charles W. “But Who Is Rose Cotton? — Love and Romance in ‘The Lord of the   
> Rings.’” Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts, vol. 3, no. 3/4 (11/12), 1994, pp. 6–20.   
> JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/43308193. 
> 
> Nelson, Charles W. “‘The Halls of Waiting’: Death and Afterlife in Middle-Earth.” Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts, vol. 9, no. 3 (35), 1998, pp. 200–211. JSTOR, JSTOR,   
> www.jstor.org/stable/43308357. 
> 
> Shippey, Tom. “From Page to Screen: J. R. R. Tolkien and Jackson.” World Literature Today,   
> vol. 77, no. 2, 2003, pp. 69–72. JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/40157997.
> 
> Tolkien, J. R. R. 1892-1973., Verlyn Flieger, and Douglas A. 1959- Anderson. Tolkien On   
> Fairy-stories. London: HarperCollinsPublishers, 2008.
> 
> Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings. Houghton Mifflin, 2005.
> 
> Tolkien, J. R. R., and Christopher Tolkien. The Silmarillion. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014.
> 
> Tyellas. “Warm Beds Are Good: Sex and Libido in Tolkien's Writing.” Ansereg, 2003,   
> www.ansereg.com/WarmBedsareGood.pdf+. 
> 
> Tyellas. “What Tolkien Officially Said About Elf Sex.” Ansereg, 1 Mar. 2002,   
> www.ansereg.com/what_tolkien_officially_said_abo.htm.


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